Savage Cry

by Charles G. West

  Chapter 3

  With the buildings of Fort Laramie now in sight, Clay dismounted and led Red down a low bank to drink from the river. While he stood watching him slake his thirst, he pondered the trail he had taken over the past few weeks. His visit with his family in Virginia had been a short one, staying only long enough to outfit himself for the task he felt compelled to take on. There was a deep sadness in his mother’s eyes when she watched her son—only recently returned from the ravages of war—riding off once more, maybe this time for good. It pained him to cause her more concern, but in his mind, there was no choice in the matter.

  John and Stephen both wanted to go with him, but they were needed at home to run the farm. His father couldn’t make it without them. And Clay could plainly see that they could get along just fine without his help. Besides, little James was already beginning to do a man’s work. In fact, when he thought hard on the matter, Clay decided that he might be one too many trying to make a living from his father’s farm.

  Red raised his muzzle from the water, and turned his head back toward his new master. “Had enough, boy?” Clay asked. The big horse shook his head from side to side, throwing a spray of tiny droplets of water as he did. Clay led him back up the bank and stepped up in the saddle his father had given him. He reached down to pat the stock of the shiny new Winchester- 66 rifle riding in the saddle boot. He had already developed a habit of keeping a close eye on the weapon. There were not many of them available. He wouldn’t have one himself were it not for the fact that his uncle worked for the manufacturer. One of the first of the new rifles manufactured by Oliver Winchester—and the first model bearing his name—it was a marvelous weapon in Clay’s mind. With a magazine holding sixteen cartridges, the rifle could be fired as rapidly as a man could cock it and pull the trigger. Clay felt he could hold off an entire company of cavalry with the repeating rifle. And, unlike the Henry that preceded it, the Winchester was fitted with a wooden forestock that protected a man’s hand from an overheated barrel. The side ammunition port made it a good deal easier to reload, but the feature that pleased Clay the most was the accuracy of his new weapon. He had acquired quite a reputation for himself as a marksman when he was in the army, so he appreciated Mr. Winchester’s dedication to accuracy. While he might grudgingly admit that the army’s single-shot Springfield could be a shade better at long range, it was no match for his Winchester under most conditions.

  In one sense, he felt a measure of guilt for accepting the rifle. It had been a peace offering from his father’s brother—an attempt to make amends for his decision to remain in New Haven when the war broke out. But his father and his brothers insisted that he should receive something for donating his share of the farm to his brothers. And they wanted to contribute something of their own toward the mission to rescue Martha. All things considered, he found himself suitably outfitted for the task he had set for himself. Since he was the one going in search of their sister, the whole family had wanted to do their share as well, contributing all they could. Clay figured giving up his share of the farm to his brothers was fair—he never had any strong urges toward farming, anyway.

  A natural feeling of uneasiness about riding into a Union army post descended upon him as he passed the outbuildings, and headed toward a building with a flagpole before it. The war had been over for a year, but it was not easy to rid himself of the sense that he was riding into an enemy camp. Blue bellies, as he had come to know them, were everywhere as he made his way at a slow walk up to the headquarters building. He had no earthly idea where to go in search of his sister, but he knew that Robert Vinings’s letter had been sent from Laramie. So that looked to be the natural place to start.

  As he stepped down from the saddle, he heard a voice behind him. “That’s a right fine-lookin’ horse you got there, mister.”

  Clay’s hand automatically clamped around the butt of the Winchester, pulling it out of the saddle sling as he dismounted. Turning toward the voice, he found a young private smiling at him. Realizing at once that the soldier’s remark had been nothing more than a casual compliment, he rested his rifle in the crook of his elbow and returned the greeting. “Thanks. He’s a pretty stout horse, all right.” He remembered to give a silent thanks to the lieutenant who had originally owned him—glad that the horse had been the personal property of the officer, and consequently, had no army brand. “Is this where I can find the commanding officer?”

  “Usually,” the private replied. “But he ain’t here now. He’s out at the peace talks.” When Clay’s blank expression told the soldier that he didn’t know what the young man was talking about, the private explained. “There’s a big powwow going on with a bunch of the Injuns. He’s over to that. Sergeant McCoy is inside. More’n likely he can tell you most anything you need to know.”

  “Thanks,” Clay replied, and stepped up on the porch.

  Sergeant Lionel McCoy was polite—friendly, even—but there wasn’t much help he could offer. The two men Clay inquired about, Robert and Charley Vinings, had been to see the colonel some time back. They had asked for help in finding Martha, but the colonel could offer very little assistance. Due to the fact that their cabin was over four days’ ride from Laramie, and there was little chance in overtaking a war party after so much time had passed, the colonel could see no wisdom in mounting a patrol to ride that distance. Since they had been camped in Sioux country—and weren’t supposed to be there, he reminded them—the best he could offer was to inquire about the woman during the peace talks. McCoy told Clay that many bands of Sioux had gathered to talk of peace with the army. The colonel had asked about a white woman captive, but none of the chiefs had any knowledge of one in any of their villages. Beyond that, there was very little the army could do.

  “What about the two men?” Clay asked. “Do you know where they are now?”

  “I’m sorry, mister. I’d like to help you, but I don’t know what their plans were when they left here. One of ’em was pretty hot about it, as I recall. I reckon he expected the colonel to send about a dozen patrols out lookin’ for the lady. The colonel tried to explain that it would be a useless waste. We don’t have the manpower to go chasing all over creation lookin’ for one woman.” Realizing that his tone might be reflecting a sense of indifference on the part of the army, Sergeant McCoy added, “You might check with O.C. Owens at the sutler’s store. I saw them hangin’ around there before they left.”

  “Much obliged,” Clay said, and took his leave.

  O.C. Owens, a wiry man in his early sixties, barely glanced up from the counter when the tall young man walked into his store. O.C. had spent most of his life trapping and trading among the Indians before failing eyesight and frazzled nerves reduced him to clerking in the sutler’s store. And he had seen enough young greenhorns, fresh off the pilgrims’ trail, to recognize one without close inspection. “Mornin’ to you, sir,” he offered politely as Clay made his way through an array of blankets and trinkets—meant for Indian trade—as well as stacks of canned goods and boxes of dried apples to supplement the soldiers’ fare. “What can I do for you?”

  “Mornin’,” Clay returned. “Are you Mr. Owens?”

  “I am.”

  “I’m hoping you can help me. I’m looking for two fellows from Virginia. Sergeant McCoy said you might be able to help me. He said they were hanging around here for a while.” O.C.’s eyebrows lifted slightly, and his face took on a cautious look—a look that Clay would learn to expect in this part of the country when a stranger came asking questions about anybody. Clay went on, “One of ’em’s my brother-in-law. My sister was stolen by some Indians, and I’m trying to find them.”

  O.C. hesitated a few seconds while he appraised the straightforward young man. Finding no deceit in the young man’s eyes, he said, “They was here, all right. Did some tradin’ with me. Vinings was the name, if I recall.” When Clay nodded, O.C. continued. “So the lady that got stole was your sister . . .”

  “That’s right,” C
lay replied, anxious to know if the man could give him any help. If Owens couldn’t, he wouldn’t know where to start looking for Martha.

  “And you come all the way out here from Virginia to try to find your sister,” O.C. went on.

  “That’s right,” Clay said in a matter-of-fact tone. “If she’s still alive, I aim to find her.”

  There was something in the young man’s bearing that told O.C. this was no idle boast. He probably meant what he said. He might find her, but most likely he’d die trying. “You know much about the territory north and west of here?” He asked it knowing that Clay had probably never set foot west of the Missouri before.

  “No,” Clay confirmed. “But Robert and Charley have been out here for over a year. I was hoping I could catch up with them, if I just had some idea where they’re searching for my sister.”

  O.C. said nothing for a few moments while he took a long hard look at the young man across the counter from him, deciding what he was going to say. Finally he told Clay what he knew to be true. “Young feller, I don’t know how good you know your brother-in-law, but them two boys ain’t got no intentions of lookin’ fer your sister. They found out the army ain’t gonna go lookin’ fer her, and they wasn’t too interested in ridin’ into Injun territory and takin’ a chance on losing their own hair.” He watched Clay closely for his reaction, but he saw no shock in the young man’s eyes, just a stone-cold glint, and a noticeable set of his jaw. “They had a little gold dust they traded for a new outfit, and joined up with a party from St. Louis headed fer the gold fields up in Montana territory.”

  Clay said nothing for a long moment while he thought over what O.C. had just told him. He could not really say he was surprised that Robert and Charley Vinings lacked the intestinal fortitude to venture into hostile country. But, dammit, Martha was Robert’s wife! It was hard to understand a man like this. Clay could feel the anger rising in his spleen, and the thought of Robert and Charley riding off to look for gold while Martha was suffering who-knows-what, was incentive enough to find the two cowards if he had to ride all over Indian territory to do it. But first, he reminded himself, he had to find Martha.

  “You’ll be going back to Virginia, then?”

  Clay glanced up from his thoughts to look O.C. straight in the eye. “No,” he answered softly. “I’m not going back to Virginia. I came out here to find my sister, and I expect that’s what I’ll do.”

  “That camp them fellers had was up in the Black Hills, if they was tellin’ the truth about it. The Sioux is mighty particular about white men messin’ around in that part of the country. Tell you the truth, it’s a dad-blamed miracle that them two boys got outta there with their scalps.” He paused to gauge the effect of his words on Clay, then went on. “A man sure oughta know which way his stick floats if he’s thinkin’ ‘bout ridin’ into Injun country.”

  “I understand what you’re trying to tell me, Mr. Owens—and I appreciate it. But Martha is my sister, and I reckon I’ll just have to chance it. I can’t just cross her off and forget about it. Like her husband did,” he added.

  O.C. shook his head slowly back and forth while studying the young man standing before him. There was something about this young fellow—a quiet confidence that made a man think he’d do to winter with—and would watch his partner’s back in a fight. Clay started to thank him for his help, but O.C. interrupted. “I tell you what, son. If you’re determined to go get yourself kilt, I’ll give you the best piece of advice I can give you. Ride on down the river about thirty miles to where Red Cloud’s Sioux is camped. There’ll be other chiefs there, too. But he’s near the tent the soldiers set up for the talks. Tell one of the soldiers there that you want to talk to Badger. You find Badger, you tell him O.C. sent you. He might help you.” O.C. paused, then, “Might not, too, but it’s worth your while to try.”

  “Badger,” Clay repeated. “Is he a soldier?”

  “Nah, he scouts for the army when he feels like it. He’s the only man I know that moves freely through all the Sioux camps, whether they’re at war or not. Folks might think the famous Jim Bridger is the Injuns’ friend, but the Sioux look at Badger as one of their own kind. And I reckon he is more Lakota than white. Anyway, you find Badger—tell him what you’re planning to do.”

  Clay had little difficulty in finding the meeting site. There were hundreds of Indian campfires along the banks of the river. It seemed that in every direction he looked, there were groups of Sioux or Cheyenne warriors talking among themselves, and between the groups of lodges, young warriors rode back and forth on their ponies, proudly displaying the nimble-footed quickness of their mounts. Clay had never seen this many Indians gathered in one place before. They by far outnumbered the detachment of soldiers deployed near a large tent in the center of the meeting ground. The sides were rolled up on the tent to let the warm breeze through. Inside, Clay could see a small group of officers seated on camp chairs while, before them, maybe fifteen or more Indians sat on the ground. The thought struck him that the soldiers would be helpless to defend themselves against such numbers should the treaty talks turn nasty.

  Feeling as if he were riding into a boiling stew of hostility, Clay continued forward. Looking neither right nor left, he made straight toward the large tent, his body erect in the saddle, ignoring the blatant stares of the warriors he passed. Mr. Owens said these were peace talks, he thought, as one after another warrior reined up to inspect the magnificent chestnut he rode. If these savages are peaceful, I don’t want to see them when they’re on the warpath.

  Once through the ring of Sioux and Cheyenne warriors that surrounded the tent area, Clay nudged Red into a trot until he reached the detachment of mounted infantry that represented the army’s strength. A group of several soldiers standing at ease before the tent watched him approach with obvious disinterest. When he pulled up before them and dismounted, one of them asked if he could help him.

  “I’m looking for a man named Badger. I was told I could find him here.”

  The soldier, a man of perhaps forty or forty-five, with sergeant’s stripes on his arm, scratched his chin as he searched his memory. “Badger? I don’t know anybody by that name.” He turned to his companions, and asked, “Any you boys know somebody named Badger?” When no one did, he turned back to Clay. “I’m sorry, mister,” shaking his head apologetically. “Is he one of the peace commissioners?”

  “I don’t know,” Clay replied, “I don’t think so. O.C. Owens, over at the sutler’s store, said I could find him here.”

  The sergeant shook his head. The name meant nothing to him. “Sorry I can’t help you.”

  “Well, much obliged,” Clay said, and turned around, looking at the surrounding Indian camps as if hoping to discover some clue that might tell him where he should go from there. He was about to take his leave when the sergeant stopped him.

  “Hold on a minute. Here’s somebody who might know.”

  Clay turned to see a tall thin man with scraggly whiskers and deep-set eyes stepping out of the tent to stretch his legs for a bit. The expression on his face reflected pain from joints grown stiff with age, as he rolled his shoulders to loosen them. He seemed to pay no attention to the small group outside the tent entrance until the sergeant called to him. “Mr. Bridger, feller here’s looking for somebody called Badger.”

  Bridger cocked his head to give Clay a looking over. After a long moment, during which he appeared to be considering whether he was even going to acknowledge the statement, he finally responded with a simple, “Is that a fact?”

  “Yessir,” Clay replied. “Badger—I don’t know his first name. O.C. Owens said I might find him over here.”

  “I don’t know that he’s got a first name,” Bridger said, “and I’ve knowed him for twenty years.” He continued to look Clay over for a few moments more. Then deciding that Clay was most likely looking for Badger for peaceful reasons, he took a few steps away from the entrance and pointed toward a group of lodges close by the riverbank. “T
hem’s Red Cloud’s people. Find Little Hawk’s lodge, and Badger will most likely be nearby.”

  “Much obliged,” Clay said, turned and nodded to the sergeant, then stepped up into the saddle.

  “That’s a right fine-looking sorrel you’ve got there,” the sergeant commented.

  “Thanks,” Clay replied, smiling. “The fellow I got him from still wishes he hadn’t let him go.” Red snorted in agreement, and leaped forward at the touch of Clay’s heels in his sides, showing off for the benefit of those watching, as he pranced shamelessly away from the tent.

  Clay guided the big chestnut stallion toward the group of lodges pointed out by Jim Bridger, aware of the eyes that silently watched his progress. He knew very little about the wild people who inhabited the lands west of the Missouri, only tales occasionally brought back east from mule skinners who made the long trip hauling freight—and newspaper accountings of Indian raids upon helpless settlers. So he felt an uneasiness that made him want to keep his hand resting upon the stock of his Winchester as he guided his horse around small groups of warriors talking around their campfires. As he approached each group, the talking stopped while every pair of eyes turned toward him. Not sure if he should appear cordial or polite, he just kept his eyes straight ahead while he passed.

  There was a gathering of six men seated before a tipi decorated with drawings of warriors on horses chasing buffalo. One of them was a white man, and Clay had no doubts that this was the man he sought. Sitting Indian-style on the ground, eating from a bowl carved from bone, was the man known simply as Badger. At first glance, one might mistake him for an Indian. He was dressed much in the same fashion as his companions—entirely in animal skins, except for the weathered old campaign hat with the front and back brim turned up. Upon closer inspection, one would notice the stubble of a beard, more gray than the black of his shoulder-length hair. Upon even closer inspection, one would realize that the clear blue eyes were not those of an Indian. And those eyes were watching Clay closely as he rode up, although his face gave no indication of even a passing curiosity.